Colors
by amullonde
Summary: A collection of one-shots relating a cast of characters I once played on a Lion King roleplay to the colors of the rainbow. Mostly unfinished and not a particularly high priority for me, though I intend to complete the color spectrum eventually. Rated M only for certain thematic elements.
1. Red

**From the author**

This work contains references to bloodshed.

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><p>"A job well done, brother dearest."<p>

She sniffs derisively at her older sibling and his expression turns from mild surprise to unamused realization. Had he thought her compliment genuine? What a fool. She watches in irritation as he turns and stalks off, so obviously proud of his success, of their father's pride in his success. Their father's words still echo in her ears, taunting her, torturing her, captivating her. Of course she had heard her father's praise for her brother- how could she not have? Fury overtakes her as she watches her brother's retreating back, his head held high, triumphant. She watches. And she dies a little inside.

If only she'd been born male! If _only_ she'd been born male!

But no. She alone had been born a daughter and the youngest of her father's many children besides, the least important in his eyes. Her father's many mates had never meant anything to him- if his murder of her mother, not that she cared, was any indication of his feelings toward females- so why should she really matter in the grand scheme of things? Her brothers were the ones that held his attention, made him turn his head to acknowledge them instead. She? She was merely an interesting experiment, a thing to be appreciated when she did well but overlooked at all other hours of the day. A tool. An object. It was not fair.

She has sacrificed more than all the others, given up things that some of her peers or friends- if she had ever had any- might have thought too important or valuable to lose. In her efforts to keep pace with her competitors, her siblings, she has endured her father's harsh lessons well past her breaking point, returning home with blistered feet and rampaging headaches brought about by heat and exertion only to repeat it all again the next day without once pausing to recover. At her father's direction she has fought, and killed, to fulfill his ambitions.

For him she has sworn loyalty to his chosen king and done her utmost to support his rule. For her father she has taken up her current role and seen to it that their prisoners are kept in line, ready to serve their king whenever he demands. She has descended to their level, too, to that of a mere captive and slave, to hunt when there wasn't enough to feed their king's conquering horde. She has debased herself for her father's benefit, to shore up his influence and reputation. Does he know how much that hurt her? Does he know that her own reputation among the prisoners, who already loathe her for the part she played in the invasion, has suffered greatly as a result of her being made to join the hunts like the rest of their king's harem?

She has humiliated herself, put herself through physical, mental, and emotional pain. She has endured so much suffering and she has done all of it for him, her father, the one she idolizes, the one she wishes so strongly to impress. Yet, for him, it is not enough. It never was.

Why is she not good enough?

Oh, how she resents them for being favored without even trying. Even her second-oldest sibling- her youngest half-brother, to be precise- even he, with all his faults and his obvious mental deficiencies, even he is more favored than her. She hates him too, but for different reasons. That one really is wrong in the head; growing up he had flirted with her often, his own sister. To this day the memories of his advances repulse her, whether they were made in jest or no. Her only consolation is that he hadn't been daddy's favorite. That had been his older brother, her father's first son. It always had been.

When that one had died she had hoped, foolishly, that her efforts might receive more notice, more favor, but she had been sorely mistaken. It was another of her brothers, the one she not-so-affectionately called _brother dearest,_ that rose to replace their deceased sibling on their father's pedestal as his ideal child, his perfect soldier. It has taken her until now to come to the conclusion, but she knew that she positively hated him for usurping her place. She earned it. She _deserved_ it! Words alone are not enough to adequately describe the depths of her anger, but words were never effective in her family anyway. Only action was appreciated.

But hasn't she given that, too? Hasn't she obeyed his every command, fulfilled his every whim, done everything he has ever asked? Without hesitation? And what is her reward for her loyalty, to watch passively from the sidelines while others take what is hers by right, to watch her brothers' gloating faces when their father lavishes them with praise? To be left behind, unacknowledged? Second-best, always?

Razor sharp claws bite into the rotting wood of a fallen tree beside her and she imagines it screams and bleeds, and that its cries of agony and dripping wounds belong to them, her brothers. She snarls and she spits and she hisses as her claws rake across the effigy of her brothers' success again and again, but she doesn't cry. She never cries, not her, not one single tear. For too long she has suffered and borne it; this, too, is nothing to her.

A sudden sharp noise echoes through the canyon and its ringing report makes her halt her frenzy mid-swipe, muscles tensed, her frame rigid. Her ears swivel all around while she casts her gaze about her manically, looking for the source, the intruder, the one foolish enough to dare approach her while her temper rages. For a while the only sound she hears is her unsteady breathing. She waits and watches... but finds only silence. It is nothing, then.

She relaxes, slightly, and returns her wrathful gaze to the ruined, hollow tree before her. What would it be like, she wonders, to actually go through with it? To rid herself of all the obstacles in her way once and for all? To never again have to listen to her stupid brothers' voices while their father looked at her, his daughter, as the culmination of his legacy, the child of whom he was the most proud, instead of his sons? She looks at the shredded wood and she imagines it is her older brother, her father's current favorite, injured at her feet and begging for her to stop, to see reason, to be understanding. She smiles, and then she lunges for the kill. One thing only does she understand and only one reason drives her now. She does not even need to consider her choice, she realizes, and she finds this new knowledge liberating.

Her hatred spills out of her at moments like these, the red drowning out everything else as it paints her world in varying hues of violence. The red is within her as well as without, for her brother does not die peacefully in her new fantasies, no. His blood is everywhere- around her, on her, inside her. She revels in it, glories in it. She finds she has never derived so much pleasure from anything in her life as she receives from this singular act of slaughter. Red, red, all of it red, all of the red that ever was, all the red in the world! The only red missing from the scene is her father's scarlet gaze. How could he bring himself to love her if he knew she had killed the most beloved of his children? No no, no. It is better that he never sees, that he never finds out.

What daddy doesn't know can't hurt him.


	2. Green

**From the author**

This work contains suicidal connotations.

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><p>"Congratulations! I'm very happy for you."<p>

The words tumble out of her with false sincerity, the recipients beaming back at her proudly, gratefully. She smiles in return but she doesn't mean it. She doesn't mean any of it but she wishes that she did. She wishes that she could. Others press forward all around her now to offer their own best wishes to the happy couple and she is quickly lost in the crowd. The others make her anxious so she edges away, her fading presence unnoticed, overlooked, disregarded as usual, but she is content to leave the expecting parents and their good news to be enjoyed by everyone except her.

And she runs.

She runs as hard and as far as she can. The verdant foliage of her homeland flies past her in a blur as she loses herself among the leafy jungle trees, running, running, running. It is not long before the pain in her chest momentarily overtakes the pain in her heart; she never was as strong as the others. Her every step wavers and it feels as though she is choking but she refuses to relent. She is nearly there... nearly there...

She does not make it. Her small body is not suited to the haste of her flight and she collapses, lungs working desperately to keep her from unconsciousness. She struggles to rise beneath the weight of her exhausted body and the weight of her pain; she does not know which is heavier. A nearby tangle of low-lying plants, dappled green sunlight filtering through their broad leaves, becomes the substitute for her special place beside the river. They are brushed aside as she drags herself into their midst only to spring back and surround her with their silent, stoic embrace. Except for her labored breathing it is quiet in the jungle.

It has been this way for a long time. She watched as, one by one, the lionesses all around her found what she has wanted all her life and she smiled for them. She is older now, her days half over or more, and the endless waiting and longing and hoping have made her into something she no longer recognizes. Seeing them happy together pierces her to the core. All she can do is smile and, when the agony of heartbreak becomes too much to endure, run away. She knows it is not right and she wants to change for the better, but she cannot. She never was as strong as the others. Is that why her father left her behind?

She hugs herself tightly, clenching her jaw against the anger and the hurt. Flowers, he'd brought her once. Flowers could not turn back the Circle of Life to repair the damage wrought by his neglect or the destruction of her family. Two of her brothers, taken away. She and her remaining brother and sister, left behind. And his mate, their mother, her Momma-!

Sobs fill her jungle hideaway. Her mother had done her best to cope with the pain of his betrayal, she really had, but she knew that her Momma cried whenever she thought she would not be seen doing so. Her Momma was very special to her. She did her best to love the little ones left to her with everything that she had, and before she died she imprinted deeply the importance of a mother's love for her children on her youngest daughter. All she wanted was to be like her Momma, to honor the one she loves more than anything in the world.

The memory of her Momma's murder still lingers freshly on the fringes of her consciousness, and she unwillingly watches it unfold again in her mind's eye. It is warm in the jungle but she shivers in spite of the humid heat as she is taken back, back to her childhood. She watches as her brother rushes forward to nudge her Momma's lifeless and broken body. She listens as her own cries of _"No, Momma! Momma, no!"_ rend the air. She hears a kindly and familiar voice shush the pair gently and looks on as the lioness the voice belongs to leads the newly orhpaned cubs away, tears shining in their eyes.

Ever since that terrible, terrible day, that little girl has waited for someone who could love her enough to give her what her Momma had. And she has waited. And waited. And waited. But hers is the power of wanting, wanting without ever having. Their gazes have always passed over her to settle on another and she does not blame them for their lack of interest. She is small, weak, plain, shy. She is less than they in every way she knows. How can she compete against the others when they are all so much more than she? She does not compare. She is eclipsed by their presence, utterly inadequate. What chance did she ever have?

She tried, though, in her own quiet, unsure way. Many times. The lions never seemed to respond to her stumbling endeavors to gain their attention or were, perhaps, put off by how needy she seemed. As she grew older these attempts became less and less frequent and more and more feeble until, eventually, she simply gave up trying and resorted to waiting, hoping desperately that she would not live the rest of her life by herself, that someone would come along and save her from her solitude. But nobody came.

She dreams sometimes, of Him, the one. In these dreams they walk through the jungle together enjoying its beauty. He pulls her close and tells her that she means something if not to herself, then to Him, and as she accepts His affectionate embrace she replies that it is enough. Their children gather between their parents, she and her mate, and she is complete. She is happy. Then she wakes and finds that the coldness of the waking world is the only thing wrapping itself about her frame. She does not go outside on these days because she cannot stop crying. She does not seek comfort from some understanding soul, either. She does not want comfort. What she wants is what they have, that most important thing which she lacks. Green is the color of her heart.

Tears stain her face now, too, and she is grateful that she cannot be seen. She raises a quivering paw and she softly strokes herself as He might, whispering empty words of comfort that do nothing to stem the tide of her crying. Rather, the self-pity disgusts her. How has her life come to be so hollow? The answer echoes inside of her, building with each reverberation until it grows so loud that she can no longer shut it out the way she has for most of her life.

She did this. She did it.

Step by step she walked the path that led her here, to her life of loneliness, to the brink of this precipice. This was her doing. Her fault. Not her father's, not anybody else's. Hers. The truth destroys her, reaches down into the depths of her soul and claws at the her innermost being relentlessly, and she feels herself begin to come apart as the realization exposes her life for the travesty that she made of it. She retches twice before emptying the contents of her stomach on the ground beside her. The jungle spins around her dizzyingly. With a shaky paw she wipes her muzzle to get some of the sick off.

She would trade everything that she has become for the chance to start over. She would fix the mistakes she made, try harder, do more. Her life would be spent living, not hiding. She would conquer her introverted nature. She would try. She would not be a disappointment any longer. She examines her position and knows that there is still time to do these things and turn her life around. She also knows, however, that change is difficult. Staying the same is easy. For her, it may already be too late.

If only her Momma were here she would know what to do. She would know how to help her little girl. She misses her Momma so badly that the pain of her absence in her life is unbearable. She loves her so much. So, so much. All she wants is to see her again, to hear her voice, to feel like somebody loves her. When her Momma was alive that was how she always felt. Loved.

She pushes herself to her feet on legs that refuse to stop trembling. Her brother and her sister love her too, of course, but it is not the same, not as complete, not as special. She cannot rely upon her brother and sister for emotional support for the rest of her life anyway. She hesitates, caught between the two possible outcomes of what might be the last difficult decision she will ever have to make. She does not want to be alone with her jealousy but looking all around her the reality of her situation becomes obvious: she is alone anyway. She will barely be missed, she decides. And she and her Momma will be together again.

The river, then. She is nearly there... nearly there...


End file.
